


Through the Haze

by BlackAngel001



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Crime Solving, Psychological Torture, Torture, angst with a happy ending maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackAngel001/pseuds/BlackAngel001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a continuation of Ulura's 'The Haze', which can be found on ff.net if you can't find it here.  Moriarty is ready to take back what's his, and enjoy doing it too.  John and Sherlock are getting over their last encounter with the criminal mastermind, but are they ready for round two?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really suggest you read 'The Haze' before you start this.

Sherlock wasn't sleeping.

Not because it was boring, or because he had a case, but just because he didn't want to. He was tired; he could feel the exhaustion beginning to creep over his limbs, his  _mind_. No matter how tired, though, Sherlock wasn't sleeping. John wasn't either, which was why he hadn't pestered Sherlock about it, and why the detective was able to get away with it for so long.

On this night, with the lights of London peeking through the windows of the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes sat on his couch at 221B and stared at the wall opposit of him. Upstairs, he could hear the creak of John's bed as he twisted through his own sleeplessness. It was close to three am; John would be up by eight, maybe seven if he was really restless. The doctor would come downstairs bleary eyed and stumbling, pretending he and Sherlock hadn't stayed up all night. John

_was somewhere in the warehouse, Sherlock was sure. He had to be, Sherlock couldn't be wrong, not about this. The world's only consulting detective sprinted down a narrow passage, throwing open every door he came across until he stumbled to a halt in a doorway. There, on a cot that used to be drab olive green, was John Watson, his friend. His once blue eyes, bright and deep and full of life and emotion, were now a dull grey, unfocused, yet accusing. That still tan face was now the color of death and slack, mouth open as if screaming, screaming for Sherlock. Sherlock's terrified gaze moved to the gunshot wound. After years of remaining unaffected by the most gruesome of crime scenes, Sherlock gagged for the first time. John's abdomen was stained a rusty color, and Sherlock could follow where the blood had dripped onto the cot and over the side to form a small puddle. But the worst of it was the maggots, beetles and flies going through the decaying flesh, eating it, laying eggs in the wound, in John's body._

_Unable to keep looking, Sherlock refocused on John's face, only to be frozen still, breath halted as he drew it. Instead of the lax expression of death, John's expressive, so expressive!, face was twisted into an ugly look of hatred and loathing._

_"You failed, Sherlock," dead John hissed. "You didn't save me, I thought you would!" Moriarty was right, you aren't extrodinary or anything like it! I thought we were friends, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock."_

"Sherlock!"

The lanky man bolted up with a gasp he would forever deny being a sob and frantically looked around. Home, he was home, not a warehouse. But John, the blood, the insects...

Then he registered a familiar warm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock followed the arm to the shoulder, then to the neck, then the face. John's blue eyes stared at him in concern, not hate or loathing, and relief rushed through his body so quickly Sherlock sagged.

"Hey now, you alright," John asked.

Sherlock mentally cursed the weakness as he straightened. He settled his expression to his normal stoic look as he replied, "Yes, yes I'm fine. You worry as much as Mycroft. More, I should say."

"Someone has to," muttered John while he headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock listened to the 'John-in-the-kitchen' sounds for a minute before contemplating, fingers steepled under his chin. Nightmares, nasty ones that woke him in a panicked, frenzied state or with tears.

He especially hated the ones with tears.

In the beginning, when John had still been missing, Sherlock's ever active brain, which wasn't prone to imagination or flights of fancy, conjured every scenario possible. Before he'd remembered, he could think of (and had) literally hundreds of ways he could've killed John. After Sherlock remembered, it was the thousands of ways Moriarty could torture and kill John. Then, late at night while sitting quietly in John's hospital room, there were the multitudes of ways he could have found John mixed with the Moriarty thoughts.

Once his brain was past the 'He'saliveJohn'salive' stage, all those hundreds of thousands of thoughts and could haves slammed to the forefront, and rested comfortably there since.

It got so bad, Sherlock had triedhalf of one of John's sleeping pills, but that only made things worse; he couldn't wake himself up. He was at his wits end on how to fix it, with no idea who to ask about this sort of thing.

Mycroft was laughable and out right at the start. Lestrade, well, he was a possibility but Sherlock didn't completely trust him with this sort of thing. That only really left...

He took the mug of tea without looking, but once John was turned to go to his chair, Sherlock looked. His bad shoulder was slouched as if in pain and a little of a limp could be seen in the clipped military stride. So, dreams of Afghanistan then. Only, John was also rubbing his arm, the one Moriarty had carved into, so there must have been nightmares of that as well.

The two blending would be a bit not good as John would say.

"Quit deducing me Sherlock, I'm not in the mood," John sighed before taking a sip of tea.

"Can't help it," he mumbled, irked and petulant because John knew that.

"You can if you stop looking at me," came the tired reply as John flipped open the paper.

Sherlock did a not-pout (because he didn't even if John swore he did) and lay back on the couch, mug resting on his stomach and craddled between his hands. His fingers tapped out a three time rhythm as slowly and without really being aware of it, his eyes drifted shut

 _only_   _to snap open again at the sound of John's scream. Another bloody warehouse, with too many doors down a too narrow and long hallway. John screamed again, a sound Sherlock had never heard from a human being, let alone his friend. He never wanted to hear it again._

_Sherlock took off running, calling for John but knowing the other man wouldn't hear him over the screams or pain. He kept calling and running anyway, now hearing mewls of agony that in no way could be John, a harsh Arabic dialect, and above all that Moriarty's insane, gleeful laughter._

Sherlock jolted up, then swore loudly when his still warm tea ended up all over his chest and lap. It only increased his annoyance in the worst way, making him ready to throw the mug against the wall, or the floor, or anything. Instead, at John's throat clearing, Sherlock thumped the mug harshly onto the coffee table then strode into his room, where he slammed the door. He changed into another set of pajamas (he wasn't going out for God- _which he didn't believe in anyway_ -, Queen- _which he didn't care about_ -, country- _see previous_ -, love- _previous, previous_ -, nor money- _which he didn't need_ \- thank you very much) and flopped onto his bed. Sherlock heard John moving, getting a shower, going downstairs and heading for Sherlock's room.

"I'm going to work," he called through the door. "Don't do anything too destructive to the flat before I get back."

Sherlock hummed loudly so John knew he'd been heard, at least. As his friend's footsteps faded out, Sherlock jumped up from the bed and headed to the window where his violin sat. He carefully tuned his treasure, making the strings taunt again. Once that was done, he tightened the bow, and began a series of quick jigs, just to get the blood going, before settling on Bach's  _Violin Concerto in E Major_. Sherlock needed to think, organise his thoughts into order-the chaos his mind was currently in was unacceptable on every level. When Bach had run his course, Sherlock went seamlessly into Puccini's  _O Mio Babbino Caro_ , one of John's favorites.

Speaking of, or rather thinking of, John, the nightmares were ridiculous. Absolutely, completely and totally ridiculous, pedestrian,  _normal_. Sherlock's face twisted into a slight sneer at the word, spoken (thought) in John's voice.

' _Get out John. My mind palace in the one place you don't dictate_ ,' Sherlock grow-thought at thought John. Speaking to his flatmate in his head was probably not good, but Sherlock used to talk to a skull in public, so there were worse things.

Like not making it in time and finding your best friend dead.

Sherlock flinched and a note turned sharp at the crescendo. Frustrated, Sherlock put down his violin (because no matter how angry or upset, he'd never damage it, ever) and began pacing. His room wasn't big enough so he went back to the sitting room and paced there.

"It's illogical," he told his faithful skull, rescently reaqquired from Mrs. Hudson (she took it so he could find it again, he knew; it was a game that had been developed to keep him entertained when he was bored and usually worked...usually). "It is illogical and dull. I found John and in time too I may add."

' _Barely though_ ,' the skull seemed to grin back.

'But I did! I remembered, I found him, we both recovered, and are all fine," he retorted.

' _Says the man who can't sleep_.'

"I can sleep. I just choose not to and I'll thank you to remember the difference," snapped Sherlock.

By the time John got home, Sherlock had worked himself into a tizzy and was no longer speaking to the skul ("He just keeps pointing out the obvious and irrelevant, John"). The good doctor stayed out of his way-much as he could when you share a small living space-, hardly bothered to nag him into eating, and instead of watching telly opted to quietly read after supper. Normally, Sherlock appreciated it, really; when John was quiet and considerate to his moods it helped an awful lot. Usually. This time, Sherlock was too irritated with himself and John to be appreciative.

"Shut up," he snapped.

John's head and eyebrows shot up. "Exscuse me?"

"I said shut up."

"I'm not-"

"You're breathing and turning the pages too loud! I can hardly think over the noise!"

John's mouth opened like he was about to make a sharp retort when instead he closed his mouth, eyes, and book. He took one deep breath, then another.

"Right. Bedtime, Sherlock," the former Army surgeon said firmly.

"I'm not tired," the formerly mature detective groused.

"Oh yeah, you are."

"Not." And with that, Sherlock flipped himself over to face the back of the couch, with his knees drawn up.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Who needed kids when you had a flatmate who regressed to the age of two? Time to change tactics.

"Sherlock, look. Maybe you're not tired, but I am."

"Then go to bed," was the somewhat muffled response.

"Yeah, well," John cleared his throat. "Will you come to bed with me?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Will I what?" Sherlock turned his head to peer at John. "If this is your way of coming out-"

"What? No, no! God, I didn't mean it like that! Jesus." John ran a hand through his short, recently cut back to military regs hair. "Look, never mind, just forget it."

Sherlock would have, if John hadn't been so resigned and defeated. His friend asked for very little in the partnership they had, nothing very unreasonable, really, and never anything personal (Sarah and that date didn't really count) besides. Sherlock sat up.

"John."

The doctor paused halfway to the stairs, back still turned but head cocked in Sherlock's direction.

"What do you want?"

John turned then to regard him carefully, to judge the sincerity behind the words. Sherlock let his face be inviting, to show that he meant it and would try to help. Apparantly satisfied with his results, John shifted. Nervous, Sherlock realized.

"Not to wake up alone," came the halting and quiet reply.

John Watson didn't ask for help in this way, or any way really. He never had. When his therapist tried to get him to ask or acknowledge the need for it, John blustered his way out. It was just something he'd never done, even as a kid. To ask now in this way was hard for the independant and prideful man. Sherlock knew that, had always known that, and to be confronted with a John desperate enough to ask Sherlock Holmes of all people, it was astonishing.

And, quite humbling.

Sherlock sighed, because for the sake of appearances and making John comfortable with asking he had to appear put upon. "Very well. But if the papers catch wind of this you can only blame yourself."

John smiled, appreciating the joke and attempt. "I'll keep that in mind."

From there they completed their nightly routines in silence. While John was in the bathroom, Sherlock settled into a chair in the corner of the room. John raised an eyebrow when he saw, but didn't say anything. He settled under the covers and duvet, switched off the bedside lamp, and squirmed around to find a comfortable postion.

Sherlock watched.

John squirmed again.

Sherlock kept watching.

John kept squirming.

"Really John no wonder you're always so tired," Sherlock finally commented. "All that tossing and turning."

"I'm always tired because I run around London with you at indecent hours then work long hours at the clinic." John turned onto his back and sighed up at the ceiling. "Get in here."

"What, why?"

"Sherlock, I can't sleep with you sitting and staring at me like that, it's creepy."

"The female in that movie Mrs. Hudson showed me didn't mind. She seemed to enjoy it."

"Okay first, why on God's green earth would Mrs. Hudson have that movie? Second, regular, every day people in regular, everyday life do mind and don't enjoy it. In fact, that's how most restraining orders get started."

"John you said you didn't want to wake up alone."

"I am aware. However, if I wake up to someone sitting in a corner of a dark room my first instinct would be to shoot, or throw a punch depending how close they are. Don't make me shoot or punch you please."

"How interesting. Would that have been your typical response before the Army?"

" _Sherlock_."

The man huffed. "Fine." Sherlock climbed into the space next to John, keeping all limbs as close to his body as he could manage. "Just so you know, if you kick or otherwise hit me in the course of the night, I will retaliate in a similar fashion."

"As close to the edge like you are I don't think you'd have time before you went over."

Sherlock considered that, then scooted closer to John. "I had thought you'd say something about not hitting sleeping soilders," he said after a minute.

John yawned. "I'd never say it's a good idea, but it also depends on the soilder. Besides, in 'Stan we would sleep huddled pretty close if we hadn't time to get back to base or make camp, 'cause of how cold it got." He started to roll on his side, then paused. "Why would the first words out of your mouth be a warning about kicking and such?"

The detective kept quiet a minute. "When we were younger, Mycroft and I sometimes slept in the same bed on family trips and things. He had awful restless leg syndrome and twitched badly in sleep. Eventually I just hit back."

"God no wonder you're half insane," laughed John. "I'm sure it was the combination of sleeping with Mycroft and getting smacked around a bit."

Sherlock's lips twitched and he chuckled. "A sound hypothosis doctor."

"Yeah, sure. G'night Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

Despite what had been said and the intentions put forth, both parties tried desperatly not to fall asleep. Eventually, the battle was lost as first John then an hour later Sherlock, drifted into slumber. When Sherlock woke in the middle of the night it was to the sounds of a sleeping John and the warmth of his body next to him. It helped chase away the dregs of his nightmare and lull him back to sleep.

When John woke a few hours later, he immediately spotted the curly head of his friend. The panic and twinge of fear John had felt from his own nightmare faded until he was able to settle once again.

The night passed quickly, and the reassurance that someone was there, that they had absolute proof that the nightmares were false, helped more than they really expected. Before either of them knew it, the sun was streaming through the blinds of John's window with enough intensity that it woke at least the doctor. John looked at his bedside clock: eleven AM. He thought about what time they went to sleep, which was about ten PM. A little over fourteen hours of sleep, sounded about right, certainly enough to get over most of the sleep exhaustion.

He stretched, careful of old and new injuries and pulling scart tissue. Beside him, Sherlock muttered and rolled over, face buried in the pillow. John chuckled quietly. He figured Sherlock would be out longer, as he went longer without sleep between the two of them. For a minute, he thought about getting up, going to the loo, having some tea and a late breakfast, or early lunch. He thought about reading the paper in his chair and having a lazy Saturday afternoon before going to the shop for groceries. But they were only thoughts and John soon found himself falling back asleep.

When Sherlock woke properly, the sun was setting. He lay still as he took stock of his body: rested, comfortable. His mind was buzzing of course, but now it seemed thought was clearer, more precise. With a care for a still sleeping John, Sherlock slipped out of the bed and stretched, long arms above his head and standing on tip toe. He'd gotten a sufficiant amount of sleep and rest that would last him for a while, so he would be up all night naturally. Somehow, he didn't think John would mind, this time.

He left John's room and headed for his own to grab his dressing gown, which he threw on carelessly while he grabbed the paper Mrs. Hudson had left on the coffee table. Sherlock flopped himself down on the couch and snapped open The Times, skimming each article he thought interesting (there wasn't many) and even those that got him in an upset about the sheer idiocy of them (there were plenty of those) until he came on the ads. He usually took more care to look over those, to decide if he wanted to contact the person placing the ad to give his input on the case or situation. As he was looking, one under the subject of 'pets' caught his eye. He straightened up as he read, then re read, a growing horror settling into his brain and gut.

_"Lost pet. Blonde, blue eyed, very loyal and fun. Bears the name 'Moriarty'. If found, please contact paper."_

It was decidedly clever, in a simplistic kind of way. No one would ever assume or even think the person placing that ad was a criminal psychopath and the 'pet' was John, who really did bear the name 'Moriarty' on his arm, along with 'Property of'.

Really, Sherlock should have expected this. Despite the months that had passed, and the silence from the criminal, Sherlock never once thought that was the end of it. The only thing he hadn't expected or thought of was that Moriarty would be going after John himself, not Sherlock. Oh, no doubt he saw this as a way to get to Sherlock, but that wasn't the point of this game. The point was to get what he now considered to be his back; the ad was to let John (and Sherlock, but that was actually secondary here) know that Jim Moriarty was looking for him and wanted him.

Sherlock realized all of this in the time it took to blink. He was then faced with a quandry. To tell John or not to tell him? To tell him would mean greater fear, more sleepless nights, more nightmares, a reverting to the soilder's vigilance and mindset. Sherlock had seen John in that mindset and it was honestly a side of his friend he didn't really like, or wish to encounter in any capacity. Granted, John had used his military training and command skills multiple times, but when the full force of the soilder came out (which was very very rare thankfully) Sherlock knew to back off.

However, John would undoubtably find out anyway, regardless if Sherlock didn't inform him. Moriarty would ensure that John found out, and it would be in some of the worst ways. It all came down to two facts. Moriarty was after John, and regardless of who or how, John would find out. His friend came downstairs at that moment looking better rested than he had in a while. The doctor looked at Sherlock and in that one glance the detective knew John knew something. It was amazing how in tune with his moods John was.

Without a word Sherlock handed him the paper. It didn't take to long to find the ad, and John's entire body went stiff, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth became a hard, straight line. The flimsy newspaper crinkled minutely in his tightening grip before the tension left John like a balloon that had been popped. His shoulders dropped, his stance went from fight to relax, and his face smoothed into John's usual calm countanence. Not for the first time, Sherlock marvelled at the fact that John could surprise him with unusal and unexpected responses.

"Figured it would happen eventually," John said. "Tea?"

And then sometimes, Sherlock marvelled at how John's unexpected and unusual responses could seem so stupid.

"Tea? A criminal mastermind who previously strapped you to a bomb then tortured you is looking or you deliberatly to do more horrible things and you go looking for  _tea_?"

During this rant John had been heading to the kitchen and Sherlock had followed; he wanted to ensure that John understood the idiocy of his response.

Once more, there was a tensing of John's shoulders but they relaxed as he filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. He half turned to Sherlock, leaning his hip against the counter and arms crossed over his chest.

"Yes," he said simply.

Sherlock stared at him. " _Why_ ," he demanded.

"Like you said, he's a criminal mastermind. One way or another, he's going to find a way to get me unless Mycroft is able to find him first and literally shoot a hole through his skull. Which I seriously doubt will happen. So, I figure the best thing to do is accept it, be as prepared as possible, and deal with it as it comes." The kettle whistled and John poured the hot water in two mugs.

"That's...that's ridiculous," Sherlock argued. "Why not take pre-emptive action!"

"Such as?" John calmly lifted the tea bags out and added sugar and milk to Sherlock's, sugar to his own. "You know what happened at the pool. You two practically read each other's minds and could predict nearly everything the other was going to do. The same will happen here, unless we do something as insane as nothing."

That brought Sherlock short. Moriarty would expect something, some kind of panic from John and Sherlock. That's what he loved most about this game, to see his pieces and players squirm and writhe in discomfort, in mental and emotional anguish. Moriarty wanted them to do something, had in fact planned for nearly everything they could possibly do.

Except where they did nothing.

It was the most ridiculous and idiotic thing in the world, but...it made sense.

John smiled and nodded. "Although to be honest, this all comes from not being able to do anything until he does." He handed Sherlock his mug.

The genius took it and went back to his chair, staring at the wall and sipping at his tea. He hated doing nothing, but then this felt like something so that was alright.

He just wondered how long it would be that way.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson was terrified. There was no way around it, and really, what were you supposed to be when a psychoticaly deranged murderer/criminal was after you? John felt terror and a healthy dose of freaking out was acceptable in those conditions. However, John was a military man, a captain, who had seen and experienced far worse in that military, and was trained to deal with terror, stress, and freaking out. What he'd told Sherlock was true, no good would come from panic, it would just lead to mistakes that would make it easier for the enemy.

Not to say that he wasn't prepared. Ever since John had been well enough, he cleaned his old army weapon every two days, field stripped it once every day, and did a perimiter check of the entire flat every night. He stepped up his work out regime steadily to make up for the healing time, and went to a gym to practice some sparring techniques he'd picked up over the years. He had been vigilent and on guard whenever he went out, almost hyper aware of his surroundings like he was back in the desert. At crime scense, he did his own analyzing of people he'd never met before, the kind you did in the field as a threat assessment. It was working for him.

Sort of.

The problem with behaving like you're in a war zone about to be attacked was that it brought up memories of when you were actually in a war zone, not just waiting for that strike, but experiencing it almost constantly some days. That lead to nightmares that mixed with the recent trauma in ways that really shouldn't make sense. But, having Sherlock close by for that helped a great deal.

Sort of.

Since that first night they'd spent sleeping together, they had spent every night together for the past week. It was in the middle of that week that the post in the paper had been discovered, and John's vigilance had increased tenfold. Going back to afore mentioned response and effect issues, the sort of stemmed from Sherlock accidentally on the floor from John's violent tossing, or bruised, and one memorable time, bloody. It was never anything too serious, but it was enough to make John incredibly guilty and refuse to sleep around Sherlock ever again. But, Sherlock (despite being bruised, kicked out of bed -literally!- and bloodied) was stubborn and knew that overall their new sleeping arangment helped them both. So he implemented all the techniques he knew to convince John to allow him back; John, being immune to some things Sherlock but overall not so much, relented. With protest and great trepidation, it should be added.

The issue of the nightmares had to be handled better, and Sherlock felt the best thing for that was to help lighten John's load on vigilance. Considering the stakes, it wasn't so very hard to increase his own observations about everyone and everything, took alternate routes with and without John, and willingly (although this was much, much, much harder to allow) let Mycroft add his own security measures.

It helped.

John was able to relax when he realized that Sherlock had his back and was implimenting his own security. He felt like he was no longer doing everything for both of them. Well, in a domestic way he still was; Sherlock had yet to clean up after himself around the flat. But, in regards to security, John had the backing of Sherlock, Scotland Yard, and Mycroft. He felt better about going out by himself, and with Sherlock because now it wasn't just him on guard. The nightmares eased drastically and they were both able to get more sleep.

But, Moriarty could be patient for so long before he went after his pet, and he felt the itch to strike.

So he did.

**Author's Note:**

> This will NOT be slash between ANYONE because Ulura requested it be so. If you want me to write slash drop a line or GTFO


End file.
